The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Travel
‘They turned out to be a welcoming bunch’
On a quest to revisit the Obini of West Papua, explorer Benedict Allen is reminded that there are still fresh parts of the world to discover
The trouble is, you were born 100 years too late!” is a refrain familiar to those of us who, back in the day, could count themselves the last of the “classic” explorers – those in the mould of Mary Kingsley and Dr Livingstone, who brought word of whole landscapes new to us.
And such old-school immersive travellers as these do indeed appear to be petering out. Freya Stark and Wilfred Thesiger are no longer with us, while Ranulph Fiennes has for years pretty much stuck to polar trekking (and whatever you say about polar trekkers, these days they are athletes, rather than explorers). Yes, John Blashford-Snell is still out there, into his 80s, questing in some thicket or other, but apart from me… well, in terms of going off-grid for months, that’s about it. There are people off having adventures – inspiring, perhaps, but not discovering much, apart from what lies within themselves – and a few seasoned folk such as Rosie Stancer and Pen Hadow usefully assisting hydrologists, psychologists, arachnologists and other boffins.
But take heart, those of “Gen Z” who do still have it in themselves to embrace danger and hardship, because in our hurry to assume in the age of Google Maps that the surface of our planet is already charted, we are overlooking whole chunks.
I headed into one of these recently. Long before, as a rash 24-year-old, I had gone off alone to West Papua and in the unmapped forests came upon an isolated band called the Obini. The Obini decided not to kill me and instead introduced me to a world entirely undocumented by my kind. And now, on my return after four decades, I wanted to know what had befallen these people who had shown such kindness.
The trouble is, like all such places, this one remains remote for a reason – and it is not just the leeches and the death adders. Last February, a New Zealand bush pilot, Phillip Mehrtens, was kidnapped not far away by a rebel movement – he is still being held as I write – and the word was that the rebels were looking for a second foreigner to snatch. Out there searching for the Obini, I’d be the perfect target.
There was one chance, I decided. I could hire a small plane and approach from the far side of the freedom fighters, a distant airstrip called Yaniruma. To mitigate the risk of alerting them, I’d have to travel at high speed. Also, I would need assistance from the Korowai, a traditional community that wouldn’t be expecting my arrival because they had no radio contact.
Nor did it seem likely the Korowai would be wildly enthusiastic about jogging for two weeks into territory totally unfamiliar to them.
The pilot hastily dropped me off at the airstrip and was suddenly gone, leaving me standing there in the heat and humidity along with my heaped supplies and my chain-smoking translator, Sadrak. The Korowai gathered around.
Thankfully, they turned out to be a welcoming bunch. At least, they were until Sadrak stopped handing out his cigarettes and instead produced photos of the Obini, invariably seen clutching bows and arrows. “These people are fighters?” someone asked, backing away. “Like we once were?”
I could see his point. You only had to look at the Korowai’s older houses, erected high in the trees as a defence strategy. Apparently, you ascended via a notched pole which could be chopped away at the first sign of an attack.
However, a young man called Oich-e now spoke up. “You are too old, weak and tall,” he said with commendable honesty. “Sadly, without our help you will soon die.”
Together with four mates, Oich-e led us off into the trees, and as we trotted along I reflected on the generosity of such indigenous people; how it was only by trusting to them, travelling in a spirit of vulnerability (unlike certain of my Victorian forebears) that I had remained alive over the years.
Time and again, we came to Korowai settlements and were offered fruit, fish and sago to sustain us. And then I would bring out my photos of the Obini – and there would be looks of utter horror but not a flicker of recognition. It wasn’t until our 10th day of travel, reliant on the Korowai’s forest knowledge and my own experience of navigating through endless shrubbery with a compass, that we came upon a fellow called Jakob. He noticed that the clay used to decorate the intimidating Obini war shields was of a redder hue. This clay was to be found five more days to the west. We were getting nearer.
But we were tiring, now – stung by bees, ripped by thorns. And I had long since been reduced to eating raw sago grubs, which are large and wriggly and not a personal favourite. Furthermore, the bridges that Oich-e helpfully fashioned over various creeks not once proved sufficient for someone of my height (I am 6ft 4in), weight and indeed competence.
Nevertheless, we headed onward. Until one day, quite suddenly, we all sat down on the forest floor. Somehow, without saying a word, we knew it was over.
My search had failed. But in seeking the elusive Obini people, I had traipsed all over an immense forest and come away with something perhaps better: an appreciation of just how much was still out there to be explored. I was 64 years of age, but there was still plenty to discover.